The smell of lavender took her back to France, and the summer when she was seventeen. To the thick stone walls of the old farmhouse that seemed to doze in the thickly scented air.
And to Marcus with his white blond hair and aristocratic profile.
Marcus, who relieved her of her virginity in the sharp, dusty grass of the neglected garden.
Marcus, to whom she gave her heart in those lavender scented halcyon days.
Marcus, who was old now too.
Marcus who brought his wife of many years a sprig of lavender with her breakfast and smiled a knowing smile.